Archive of the defunct AOL Journal Musings from Mâvarin (2004-2005, with intermittent postings through 1/5/08).

Saturday, December 11, 2004

Mâvarin Fiction Entry: Meet Joshua Wander, Part Six

Joshua
Wander's origin story is getting too long to summarize here in detail, so please
see the links at the bottom of the entry. The short version of the
story so far is as follows:

The willing subject of experiments conducted by two of his professors,
Christopher Stein (the future Joshua
Wander) develops an ability to manipulate the electromagnetic spectrum. In doing so, he
disappears from the lab into another world, with one of his professors
dead at his feet and two small medieval armies advancing on him from
opposite directions.

Chris scares the combatants away with lightning, and recreates the conditions that took him out of the world he knew. He
reappears in the lab, but he's not really touching
anything or anyone. The lab disappears again, along with Rachel and her
shocked and angry husband.

Next Chris finds himself in a cave. He ventures out onto the night and seeks shelter in a nearby
barn, where he is greeted by the telepathic voices of the
horse and cow who live there. They tell him that his coming was
foretold. Chris accepts an
invitation to sleep in the hayloft.

In
the morning, a man who calls himself Onclemac comes into the barn.
Chris introduces himself by the made-up name Joshua Wander, and is
advised to keep his real name secret. Onclemac tells him he's in
Angland. Onclemac himself came from Syracuse, having
unwisely read aloud from a spell book.
He invites Joshua in to breakfast, and tells him that "Josh" will be a
wizard. Josh is unsure that anything he's done can be attributed to
magic rather than science, until his experimental attempt to light a
fire has obviously magical side effects.

Part Six: The Book

I
think it was Arthur C. Clarke (or was it Larry Niven? Robert A.
Heinlein? No matter; I’m in no position to look it up) who said that
any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.
Back in Syracuse, I’d assumed that my ability to produce
electromagnetic phenomena was the scientific consequence of all those
experiments the Graysons had conducted on me. But in this other world,
where wizards walked, and animals talked in people’s heads, what I did
seemed more like magic than science, especially considering the side
effects I’d just witnessed. If I could do that, perhaps I could learn
to do other magic as well.

“Food’s ready,” Onclemac announced.

I
sat and ate, but my mind was hardly on the eggs and sausage. I was
still thinking about what I had just seen and heard and done, and what
it meant for my future. What I had
experienced since Rachel’s seizure wasn’t a dream or a game, an odd
D&D adventure with effects by George Lucas. Strange things had happened to me, and it
looked as if they were going to continue to happen. My old life was over, but I
was having trouble wrapping my brain around that concept.

What was most real to
me—what weighed on me more than anything else—was Rachel’s death. I
couldn’t do anything about Rachel now, especially not here in Angland.
I couldn’t explain to Professor John, or apologize, or give a statement
to the police. I couldn’t attend her funeral. I had killed her, and
nothing I could do now would help her or John or anyone else back home,
or even tell them how sorry I was.

As
bad as I felt about Rachel’s death, I
was going to have to deal with much more than that. If I couldn’t find
a way home—or chose not to try—my life had just changed, drastically
and permanently. I would not be doing my Algebra homework from now on,
or writing that overdue paper about Romeo and Juliet. I would not be
home for Hanukkah, with either parent. I would not be seeing friends
or family again, ever.

The sudden end of my matriculation at Syracuse
University didn’t bother me much, but being cut off from everyone I
knew was a different matter. What would they think had happened to
me? Would Grayson tell people he’d seen me disappear out of the lab,
like a character on Star Trek but without the sparkles? Would he say
that I’d killed Rachel and fled? Would he say that she died by
accident, and that the same accident somehow vaporized me so that there
wasn’t even a body?

Well, again, there was nothing I could do about
it if I didn’t get home. Grayson would say what he
chose to say, and I wouldn’t be able to refute it.

“I’m
thinking I should try to get home,” I said. “It’s not fair to the people if left behind not to explain what
happened, or even let them know I’m all right.”

Onclemac
nodded. “I felt that way—at first. But I didn’t leave under traumatic
circumstances as you did, and I didn’t have much family left by then.
That probably made it easier to stay away.”

“Have you ever been back? Is it possible to get there from here?”

“Possible? Yes, if you're lucky. I’ve managed it once, but I didn’t like it. I soon left again.”

“How did you do it?”

“Finish your breakfast, and I’ll show you.”

So
I did, and he did. Hidden away in a small office full of worn, wooden
furniture and an eye-popping assortment of books was a locked mahogany
box with angular runes carved into the lid. Onclemac opened it with a
small gold key, a series of taps and a muttered spell. Inside was an old-looking, thick, leather-bound
book. The cover consisted of a simple design in gold leaf, including a
single word in letters that weren’t quite the ones used in English.

And—at least to my altered sensibilities—it was glowing.

“Is this the book you found at Economy?” I asked.

“It is,” he said. “I know it looks like a prop from a Hammer movie, but this is the source of most of my magic.”

“I believe it,” I said.

Onclemac looked at me curiously. “Why do you say that?”

“Well, it’s glowing,” I said.

“Really?”
Onclemac looked surprised, and rather pleased. “It doesn’t do that for
me.” He opened it to the first page after what looked like a
title
page. “The pages on the left are spells. The ones on the
right are counterspells. They undo the spells next to them,
assuming you survive long enough to read them.”

“How do you know what the spells do? There are no illustrations. Can you read the language the spells are in?”

“I’ve
managed to decipher a few words over the years, but mostly I have to
try a spell to see what it does, and keep notes on which one does
which.”

“That sounds dangerous,” I commented.

“It
is,” Onclemac agreed cheerfully, “but it’s usually worth it.” He
flipped forward a page, and pointed. “Spell number two is especially
helpful. That’s the one of language comprehension. I say it once for
each new place I go.”

“Why don’t you use it to understand the book?” I asked.

Onclemac
smiled. “I’d have to be in the place where this language originates for
the spell to be useful. I haven’t found that yet. Even if I did,
there may be a charm on the book to prevent such shortcuts.” He
shrugged. “So I study, and when that gets too boring I experiment.”

“Do you think this book can help me get home?”

“Maybe.”
He flipped back a page to Spell Number One. “This is the spell that
took me out of the world I knew—and the world after that, and the one
after that. Now, it seems to me that you’ve been doing that outward
bound stuff just fine on your own. But what if you were to say Spell
Number Two? It might take you backwards, without your even saying spell
Number One.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“It
might do nothing, or it might send you to some other world at random,
just like Number One. Either way, I’m coming with you to keep you out
of trouble.”

“Okay, thanks. How?”

“I
just need to be touching you while you say the spell. I’ll also be
holding the book, by the way, so don’t get any ideas about absconding
with it. Ready?”

I nodded. “I guess so.”

He held the book open before me. “Memorize Number One, first. You may need it. But don’t say it aloud yet.”

I looked at the left hand page. In half-familiar letters, it said, “Ba keep ooch ma vere.”

“Not very long, is it?” I said.

“Nope. That’s what makes it easy to memorize. As far as I can tell, it pretty much means, “Get me the heck out of here.”

I laughed, and read the other one silently. “Ba keep lor me fole.”

“Have you memorized Number Two yet?”

I read it through several more times. “Yes. I’ve got them both.”

“Great.” He shut the book and grabbed my hand. “Now say it.”

With
the first word, light poured into the room to surround us, along with
the book. A humming noise, like guitars plugged into overloud amps,
began somewhere near my mouth and spread out from there.

As I finished the word “fole,” the room disappeared.

The
next thing I saw was Crouse College, hulking over the rest of the
S.U. campus in the December sun. Onclemac stood beside me. He looked
impressed. So did Jerry, an overweight friend of mine from the D&D
group. He came running toward us across the Quad, shouting, “Chris!
Wait up!”

“Interesting,”
Onclemac said. “You’re still not quite here, but I am.” He tucked the
book under one arm, just as Jerry arrived in front of us. He was
panting.

“Chris!” Jerry repeated. “You’re alive!”

“Um, yeah,” I said.

Then
something extraordinary happened on Jerry’s red face. The expression of
joy and relief drained away, replaced by one of horror and fear. “Uh,
are you sure you’re alive?” he said at last. “I mean, I can see through
you.”

“Who
are you?” Jerry asked. He was staring at Onclemac now, as well he
might. The ex-optometrist wizard wasn’t exactly dressed for Syracuse in December. My
sweatshirt was back in Onclemac’s front hall, but none of the cold of
the snowy, windy Quad was reaching me. Interesting.

Onclemac stuck out his hand for Jerry to shake. “Harry,” he said. “Harry MacTavish. I’m a friend of Chris’s.”

You are looking at an archive edition of Musings from Mâvarin, the AOL Journal I wrote from Tuesday, March 23, 2004 through November 2005, and intermittently thereafter. It was my first-ever blog on any service.

The last version of the old journal's header said:

Included essays, photos, poetry, polls, trivia, rants, and weekly fiction entries from the author of the pending Mâvarin and Joshua Wander novels. This blog was abandoned in late 2005, but is occasionally revived on a limited basis. Please visit http://outmavarin.blogspot.com for my daily postings.

About Me

Author of magazine articles, trading cards, and the Mâvarin novels. Intermittently seeking an agent and a publisher. Accountant, church webmaster, ex-fanzine editor. Married since 1979, one husband, no kids, two dogs, no cats.
Email is mavarin2 at gmail.com. Home is Casa Blocher, better known as The Museum of the Weird. Welcome!